


Those Lime-Flavoured High Holy Days

by FunkyinFishnet



Series: Violet Nights [9]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baking, F/M, Family, Jewish Character, Jewish Holidays, M/M, Religion, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur is exactly what you expect, and the exact opposite. He keeps his family safe, he keeps an ear out and his eyes keen. He eats cupcakes and he always has company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Lime-Flavoured High Holy Days

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : Religious intolerance, strong language, mild drug-use. See end notes for more details.

 

 

Bofur would never have classified himself as being orthodox faith-wise. In fact, he and Bombur vigorously stretched anyone's definition of traditional, but they'd never abandoned their family’s religion. Roots were roots after all.

 

They both still went to synagogue regularly and for prayers on Rosh Chodesh and Rosh Hashanah. Neither of them fasted, except for Yom Kippur when they both wore their tallits and tried not talk or even think about food. Bofur tried to avoid Violet Nights when fasting and even if he did pop in, Bilbo always refused to serve him. On one memorable occasion, he kept Bofur away from the cupcakes armed only with a butter knife and a landfill of caustic words. The next day Bofur brought him a bottle of Bombur’s lethal homebrewed ale as an apology.

 

The brothers kept hannukah of course. Bofur went to Bombur’s flat for the lighting of the menorah and made potato pancakes that even Bombur’s Gentile wife Angelique enjoyed. And whilst Bilbo didn’t make doughnuts himself, he knew a bakery that hand-fried pretty spectacular batches. Bofur loved a jam filling and could never see the point of custard doughnuts, though the chocolate ones were worth a second bite.

 

Bilbo had commented that a lot of Jewish celebrations and remembrances seemed to revolve around food (if they didn’t involve fasting) and he wasn’t wrong. Bofur liked to claim that that was why he and Bombur had kept the faith; it kept them fed regularly if nothing else. On purim, they exchanged baskets of mishloah manot – Bombur always included a fruitcake covered in Bofur’s favourite marzipan while Bofur bought the chocolate bars and sweets that they’d used to swap endlessly as kids. The only dressing up he did was donning the hobgoblin mask that had scared the shit out of Bombur back in the day. Now, it just made Bombur’s kids laugh.

 

Passover always included the whole group, Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur might share blood but their family had grown beyond that. They used a different venue each year – no use making it easy for Smaug – and Angelique would smile in the candlelight as her kids screwed up their faces at the taste of bitter herbs. Bofur wore his kippuh, the old green one that he kept on his person at all times because his Granddad had given it to him and you didn’t forget things like that. He couldn’t help blinking sometimes when he looked at Bombur, because his brother looked a hell of a lot like their dearly-departed Dad.

  
*

  
Now Angelique might have enjoyed the Jewish festivals and she certainly didn’t have a problem with her kids taking part in them, but when their second child Camille was a few weeks old, Angelique warned Bombur that she wanted a Catholic baptism. When Camille was older, she could claim whatever faith she liked, but until then, she’d be steeped in the two that her parents held dear. It wasn’t a shock – Angelique had put forward the same argument about Isaac and had gotten her way then.

 

  
Both Bombur and Bofur saw the logic in it and Bofur grinned to himself, thinking about how much another Catholic christening in the family would have scandalised at least two of his grandparents. God, their faces would have been a picture...

 

  
“So keep the date, you know what a keen hand Angelique is with the pie cutters. No excuses, all welcome.”

 

  
“Of course we are.” Kili looked smug, nestled between his brother’s legs.

 

  
Bilbo looked amused and disbelieving and Bofur waggled his eyebrows in invitation, so Bilbo gave voice to his expression. “A Jewish-Christian baptism?”

 

  
“Just a Catholic one. She’ll bat mitzvah when she’s of age, if she’s a mind to.”

 

  
Bilbo shook his head, his knee pressed against Thorin’s. Balin was scribbling in his diary, while Nori was doing something dangerous-looking with a blunt knife and a couple of plastic sporks that he’d rustled up from somewhere.

 

  
Bofur munched on a large cookie, he loved when Bilbo used caramel chips as well as chocolate. “Your first, Bilbo? I dare say you won’t witness another like it.”

 

  
“We'll all watch the doors, swapping every half hour,” Thorin spoke up before Bilbo could. “Dwalin and Bifur need to do a sweep beforehand.”

 

  
“Father Michael has been warned.”

 

  
Bofur finished his sentence with a flourish and Bilbo’s expression went wandering around amusement again. Bofur grinned in response, feasting on chocolate and crumbling biscuit. Bilbo was part of the family now, which meant he got all the bells and whistles.

 

  
*

 

  
Of course it also meant that Bofur got to pass on some eagerly-anticipated baking knowledge. Bombur was too busy with christening details and Bilbo didn't yet have the knack for understanding Bifur. And seeing as Bofur had an afternoon free, he tucked a roll-up behind an ear and pushed back his sleeves in order to get floury. He could see that Bilbo had a pile of questions and the baptism would probably lean closer to success if Bilbo had a better lay of the land.

 

  
As Bofur began explaining the delicious mystery of making a good hamantaschen, he grinned at Bilbo with a teasing corner of his mouth. “Out with it then, come on. I can hear the questions from here.”

 

  
Bilbo smiled ruefully. “It is pretty unusual, Bofur.”

 

  
“Incestuous brothers, a Jewish-Catholic couple, plus a wealth of tattoos, criminal records, and a more-than-healthy love of the cock, all under one Catholic roof for a little girl’s christening?” Bofur’s grin was practically a laugh.

 

  
Bilbo joined in as he rolled out the pastry. Their laughter didn’t stop for a while. After all, this was their normal, it worked for them. Why shouldn’t they mix up the paintbox's colours? Bofur had spent a lifetime doing just that.

 

  
“Of course, Bombur’s lucky to have met her, Angelique,” he admitted once the laughter had finally quietened down. “She’s a rare one, as steely as they come when you're talking about her kids, and a mind like the night sky. God, he’s lucky and he knows it, he prays gratitude for her everyday.”

 

  
“How did they meet?”

 

  
Bofur grinned, filled with more than his fair share of nostalgia. “Teenage sweethearts. You should have heard the fuss her parents kicked up. Once the engagement was set, that was it – the family disowned her. Her brothers still won’t talk to her.”

 

  
One of them had given Bombur a black eye and Bofur a bloody nose. He’d been looking for trouble, ranting at them for taking his sister down paths that were despised by God. It had been a fun evening. Bofur lingered on that memory with a smile.

 

  
“It’s a price, you know? For that choice. Some of her family say that there’ll be a punishment from the Almighty for her, that her kids will suffer for Angelique’s choice, that they’ll break her heart,” Bofur snorted, shaking his head. “Show me a family where children haven’t broken their parents’ hearts and I’ll show you liars aplenty. At least now Angelique’s got a family that'll hold tight to her no matter what.”

 

  
Bilbo nodded slowly, letting the words sink in, because the story wasn’t just a story, it was a reminder for him, a reminder that choosing a Durin, choosing someone in their orbit, meant pain and not always from Smaug. Bilbo was strong and he wasn’t easily scared, Thorin was better off for it. Bofur liked Bilbo a lot, his dry humour and his open easy acceptance of all things Durin, and he wanted Bilbo to understand, to _really_ understand, that it wasn’t ever going to be easy.

 

  
Of course, that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth it though. Bofur was sure that Bilbo had already gotten that message loud and clear.

 

  
Bofur hummed as he opened a jar of poppy-seed filling, it was still his favourite, even after all these years. And there’d be fried hamantaschens with apricot filling for Bombur. Purim was a particularly delicious time of year.

 

  
*

 

  
Bofur dreamed about sex. He dreamed about Maxine, her spill of red hair and that dirty laugh. She liked apricot hamantashcens too. He dreamed of licking pastry crumbs off her gorgeous pale skin. He dreamed about Paul and Danno and Felicity and Millie. He dreamed of sweat and perfume and stubble and lace.

 

  
Bofur dreamed of prayers at the synagogue, the reassuring murmur of ancient words in the combined voices of several generations. He dreamed of his own voice turning rich with arousal as a talented mouth enveloped his cock, and still the words continued, virtue and lust so very intertwined.

 

  
Bofur dreamed of his grandmother’s cheese blintzes and of his grandfather blowing the shofar. His mother’s singing was never far away. Neither was the sight of Bifur, bleeding, confused, and babbling broken jagged words.

 

  
Bofur dreamed a lot.

 

  
*

 

  
Nori took a deep drag from the pungent cigarette. His hands clinked with jewellery, numerous chunky rings, a couple studded with gems. He always clacked the rings together while he worked, testing locks, door hinges, the sightlines of properties. Together, he, Dwalin, and Bifur offered the closest thing possible to airtight security. Bofur only had a little input there; after all he was just a barman that people liked to talk to.

 

  
“Haven’t seen our friend in the green shirt for a couple of days,” he commented.

 

  
“Mmm, he hasn’t been watching Fili,” Nori mused, handing the blunt back. “Though yesterday he did turn up in one of Ori’s sketches of the town centre.”

 

  
“So he could be widening his territory.”

 

  
“It's looking likely. Bifur's running Ori's sketch through a few programmes.”

 

  
Then a Durin or two would pay a visit to whichever address was spat out. You could tell a lot by visiting someone's home. Bofur flexed a foot, the long-ago break had healed completely but it still hurt when the weather was cold. He'd repaid the breakage in full. So many sins could occur during the chaos of a bar fight.

 

  
*

 

  
When Angelique did her double-check of who'd be attending Camille's big day, she raised eyebrows at Bofur, voicing the assumption that he'd be bringing a date. Bofur grinned a grin full of filthy ideas, just as Bombur dropped a second sugar cube into Bofur's milky coffee, adding a sidenote.

 

  
“Maxine.”

 

  
Bofur tipped an amused upside-down face towards him, an expression that Bombur sent right back. He looked like he definitely didn't want to discuss how he knew who his brother was currently and regularly fucking. Bofur was tempted, of course, to start describing why Maxine was so often at the top of his menu, but then Angelique might not serve that dream of a lemon meringue pie that was sat on the kitchen counter, waiting to be sliced. So he settled for sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth, watching as his brother pinked and rolled his eyes. Bombur would steamroll any who attempted to hurt his family, but a little brotherly sex-talk always gave him the vapours.

 

  
“And she'll not...?”

 

  
“She won't bring a strap-on in her handbag, no,” Bofur assured his sister-in-law, who smacked him round the back of his head as a retort. “Watch it; my brother likes that sort of thing.”

 

  
Bombur made an unhappy noise and Angelique laughed, wrapping her arms around her husband's fulsome waist. Her parents could act like Angelique had been ruined by heavy-handed Jewish influences until God himself came down for a visit, but Bofur had seen her smoking at fourteen and shoving a hand down Bombur's trousers not long after. Whatever 'corruption' was present in Angelique, it’d clearly been running through her veins since way before any Durin involvement.

 

  
Speaking of which, Angelique was whispering sweetly to Bombur, apparently calming the not-so-savage beast because now she was looking towards her brother-in-law instead.

 

  
“No sex in the church and no heavy petting, or I'll be telling Father Michael that you're looking to enthusiastically convert.”

 

  
Bofur gazed at her admiringly. It always got him by the balls; Angelique being so gorgeously conniving. “Oh, come away with me. Bombur can look after the sprogs.”

 

  
Angelique winked and squeezed Bombur tight. “It's sweet that you think I'll ever find that at all tempting.”

 

  
Bombur laughed. Bofur was almost positive that he wasn't going to be getting lemon meringue pie any time soon.

 

  
*

 

  
The church looked good, very beautiful. In deference to the occasion, Bofur had swapped his ever-present hat with the earflaps for a battered navy trilby. It almost matched his suit and it made Bilbo do a double-take – Bofur had never seen anybody actually do that in real life before, it was a shame nobody had gotten a video of it. Bombur had his suits custom-made and looked very classy, his beard as trimmed as it was ever going to be and his hair neatly braided. Angelique was a vision, all thick blonde ringlets and a pretty blue dress that matched her eyes, while Camille burbled somewhere amongst an abundance of blue and white frills and Isaac just about kept his toddler-size suit on.

 

  
Father Michael shook everyone's hand and welcomed them all. There was crowd enough to call it a celebration. All the Durins and their plus-ones were there of course, along with a couple of distant cousins from Bofur and Bombur's family – their mother's side - and two of Angelique's sisters, the only ones still talking to her. And of course Maxine was there, in a kelly-green dress and kitten heels, with a smirk sharp enough to open tins. More importantly, she was the only person that Bofur knew, apart from himself, who thought that Bilbo's best cupcakes were the lime ones with the fresh lime curd filling. Bifur always shook his head, saying that Bofur’s tastebuds couldn't be trusted but then, he preferred Bilbo’s lavender cake so what did he know?

 

  
Speaking of which, it was time for Bofur to change places with Bifur's wife. He patted Maxine’s hand as he left, to let her know that he’d be back soon. She didn’t know the full Durin story, but as Bofur counted her as a good friend (and as she'd passed some of Bifur’s extremely thorough background checks), she knew enough – that some pretty nasty-minded people had it in for the Durins hence why paranoia was the family motto.

 

  
There was Florella, leaning in the back doorway, a lavender rose tucked into her hair, the purple and gold swirls of her patterned dress glinting in the sunlight. Bofur kissed her temple and swatted her arse. She smiled and kissed his cheek. They were family, after all.

 

  
“All’s well?”

 

  
“It’s very Catholic.”

 

  
Bofur laughed as she eased up to her full height, which was impressive thanks to a pair of lethal-looking spike-heeled shoes and strode back into church to take her place at her husband’s side. Bofur settled in for his shift – nothing had happened at Isaac’s christening, but you couldn’t assume that today would be so fancy-free. At least it was warm and pleasant, and Bofur wouldn’t be bored for scenery thanks to the street outside.

 

  
There were window-cleaners and scores of cars with interesting passengers. He used his phone to check with the suppliers about the next lorryload for Erebor’s bar, he and Bombur ran that side of things though naturally Bombur had been otherwise preoccupied recently. Nothing remotely suspicious crossed Bofur’s path. In fact, it wasn’t until there was the babble of a released congregation that anything even vaguely Dark Side reared its reptilian head.

 

  
Ladies of all ages in proper little hats were beginning to file into the church building, armed with cleaning supplies and baskets of candles and flowers. From years of long practice, Bofur was able to simultaneously keep one eye on Maxine who was chatting to Bilbo and another on those making their pleasant way into church, right up until he saw a familiar and sharp flash of silver. Then he was expertly grabbing the arm of a young lady with chocolate-brown hair and a fuchsia outfit, talking to her at a beguilingly fantastic speed, smiling until he got her outside and around the corner. He grabbed the knife from her handbag before she got any ideas and tucked it into his suit jacket's hidden pocket.

 

  
“I don’t know how you do things here, but this does not play well with mass.”

 

  
The woman’s face twisted and there was such ugliness in her expression as she let loose a few words that Bofur had last heard hurled at his mother back when he was a little 'un. The woman finished her diatribe by spitting at him. Bofur wiped his face clean with a jacket cuff; it wasn’t as though the suit was dry-clean only. Anger was simmering nicely through his veins though, which made him smile.

 

  
“Now then, I know that you’d like for me to believe that this is all about my spending the Sabbath in the synagogue instead of this fine mausoleum. But the good Lord is pretty clear about the spilling of blood, neighbour or not, so I think we’ve got a friend in common.”

 

  
He slid his phone out of his pocket as he spoke and innocuously thumbed a button. He had her picture now; she’d go into Bifur’s database. Smaug was broadening his range of weaponry.

 

  
Maxine reached his side, she must have noticed his absence and gone looking, and fixed her disbelieving gaze on the woman whose eyes were small and hard. This was no Sunday worshipper with a grudge, this was a professional.

 

  
Bofur hunkered down a little, to gaze into her face. His own eyes were hard and implacable. “Thanks for the christening gift.”

 

  
He let go of her arm and she paused only for a moment, more poisonous words crackling from her haughty lips before she marched off. Bofur watched carefully.

 

  
Maxine looked at him. “They still make people like that?”

 

  
Bofur chuckled, though the anger was still there, for his parents, his brother, his cousins, for everyone who gave voice to those familiar ancient words in ancient buildings. Smaug knew how to cut deep – a little prejudice, enough to spark and set off a powder-keg, causing a city-wide uproar whilst also hurting the Durins. Because that woman would have loudly proclaimed that she was doing God’s work if she’d succeeded, working off a nicely devastating script, and the tremors that would have been set off from that…

 

  
Maxine tucked an arm through his. She hadn’t seen the knife, but she’d heard the words right enough. She looked beautiful and bright. Most people assumed that Bofur had met her at Erebor, that she was one of the punters that he’d snogged under the bright lights and glitter. Well, sure, he did more than his fair share of that, but he’d met Maxine in the bakery that Bilbo had directed him towards for spectacular doughnuts. She’d been picking up a bagel for lunch and had offered advice when Bofur had drooled over the flavour choices. He’d admired her tattoo - a sunburst, a song lyric, a black silhouette of something – and had bought her a couple of doughnuts. The night after that, he’d snogged her amongst Erebor’s lights and shadows.

 

  
“One day, you’ll tell me your secrets,” she said quietly, almost like a tease in his ear, a crack at the worried angry tension still cloaking them.

 

  
One day, maybe, sure. But first Bofur had to tell Thorin what had happened and then spread the word to all other Durins. He’d dance with Angelique’s sisters – he’d slept with one of them before, maybe both actually – and would tell the most embarrassing stories about Bombur that he could get away with in front of a curious toddler. He’d feel that anger still pumping through him, buried where no one could see, though his brother would sense it. Bofur was fine with that anger. Anger was good, it could be used. He always enjoyed using it, but not tonight.

 

  
Tonight, he’d watch Maxine eat the lime cupcakes that they both sang the praises of and he’d be sure to grab a cherry pie to take back to his place afterwards so that he could eat the filling off the dips and rises of her fascinating form. Her skin would taste of cherries but her lips would still carry a delicious hint of lime curd.

 

  
'One day' never had to be today.

 

  
_-the end_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings** : Religious intolerance - a Catholic character is estranged from her family because she marries a Jew, the family's extreme dislike of this fact is detailed. Also Bofur, identified as Jewish in this verse, suffers non-specific verbal abuse for his faith.  
> Mild drug use - both Bofur and Nori smoke pot in this story.


End file.
